I woke up from a sharp jolt. The bunker was shaking. My ears were ringing, and sand was raining down on me from the bunker’s ceiling. I leaped out of my bunk. Comrades were already standing with weapons in their hands.
‘Get out quickly!’ a voice shouted out of the darkness. ‘Or else we’ll suffocate.’ ‘Why leave?’ Romanov retorted. ‘You want to leave the shelter and face the shell fragments? We’ll wait right here for the barrage to end.’ There was another muffled explosion. Our mess kits fell from the shelf to the floor with a ringing clatter.
‘They’ve been finding the range. Now they’ll hammer us . . .’ Holding my breath, I waited for the next blow. My knees were shaking. Several explosions, following in quick succession, were audible, but now much further away. The bunker gave one last shake and then remained standing firmly.
‘That’s it, it seems. But it gave us quite a shake,’ Andreyev said. A voice responded, ‘Don’t celebrate; more will be on the way.’
‘In the future, but today it passed us by.’ ‘Get out!’ Romanov ordered.
I ran out into the pre-dawn darkness, hungrily gulping the dry frosty air. Dust and smoke from the explosions obscured my vision. Running about 200 metres along the trench to my sniper position, I stopped to catch my breath beside an open Maxim machine-gun position. Two unfamiliar soldiers were bustling around the gun. They were cleaning the sand and snow from the machine gun.
‘Andrey, this means the Fritzes will be attacking, eh?’ a rather scrawny, narrow-shouldered soldier asked his comrade. The other one was a head shorter than me, but a sturdy guy – like a short Hercules.
‘It’s in revenge for our scouts’ work yesterday. No doubt they didn’t like it. Just look what they’ve done: one end of the beam is sticking up into the air. So you see they’re angry . . . I tried their bread yesterday – it was a piece of shit. That’s all they have . . . They call it “ersatz” or something.’
‘You think the Germans won’t attack? Then why did they fire on us so heavily?’
‘I’ve just told you – out of spite.’
The stout strongman carried boxes with full ammunition belts to the machine gun. At the time I didn’t know that he would be the one to save my life, but simply out of curiosity I listened in on their conversation.
‘Andrey, our new platoon leader is a fine man! He himself lately led a reconnaissance behind enemy lines.’
‘Yeah, he’s an experienced fellow. He was on a snatch operation, and you can’t make a mistake in that business.’
The scrawny fighter, catching sight of me, began to smile with embarrassment, glancing sideways at Andrey, who was sitting on a cartridge case.
‘Look, Fedor, you immediately noticed another guy’s courage, but you yourself tremble, and you’re afraid to attack.’
‘You’re a real comic, Andrey, you’re really laying it on . . . I’m not the one who cowers, you understand, I’m not the one. Did you hear what the company commander said?’
‘I heard him.’
‘So why cower? “He who knows how to defend well and how to carry out an order, that’s the brave one.” All the rest, if you will, is just bullshit.’
‘That’s right, so there’s also no point in cowering.’
The machine-gunners had prepared their machine gun for battle, and were now crouching in expectation of an enemy attack. I left for my lair, took a seat on the dirt bench I had fashioned, opened the gun port, and began to scan the enemy’s trench.
At first, other than clumps of snow and chunks of ice, I didn’t see anything. Even in their own trenches, the Nazis were acting very cautiously.
After a while, Sergey Naydenov, a strong, fair-haired young soldier who had recently arrived in the company, crawled up to my nest with a light machine gun. His handsome face with its fine features and calm, heavily-lidded eyes made a good first impression. He didn’t smile often, but he had a fine smile. His every movement conveyed confidence. Naydenov behaved calmly and circumspectly in battle.
Naydenov tugged the sleeve of my jacket and gestured at the enemy breastworks: ‘Take a look there. An officer is sketching something on the wall of the trench with a stick.’
his back to us, his helmet slightly askew. A slender twig stuck out of the sleeve of his camouflage cloak, and was slightly moving in the wind.
‘Seryozha, have you ever been to a puppet show?’ ‘What of it?’
‘I can boil it down to a word: “dummy”! They often set one out, trying to catch our marksmen out with the bait.’
‘Catch how?’
‘Very simply; you, spotting a German like that one, fire on the spur of the moment, and then you’ll stick your head up to see if you hit the target. That’s when one of their snipers will pop you.’
‘Take a better look,’ Naydenov insisted, ‘his head is turning.’ ‘We’ll leave the dummy alone and search for a live target.’
Naydenov put his eye up to the eyepiece of the periscope: ‘You’re right, it’s a dummy! All the same, the rogues had a clever idea.’
I stubbornly continued to search for the German sniper that had to be lurking somewhere, but for a long time I didn’t see anything. A beam, lying behind the rear parapet of the German trench with its butt end sticking in our direction, helped me. Right in line with the butt end of the beam, from time to time a white hump appeared, sometimes growing in size, sometimes diminishing, or else disappearing entirely.
Focusing in on the hump more attentively, I discerned that it was the head of a German, covered with white camouflage netting. I directed Naydenov’s attention to it.
‘That’s a sniper?’ Sergey asked, not taking his eyes from the periscope. ‘No, that’s their observer. You see, he’s not holding a gun. Keep your eye on him, while I search for the one who set up the dummy.’
A short time later Naydenov alerted me: ‘Comrade Commander, that German disappeared, and another one has taken his place. But this one has a rifle in his hands, do you see?’
The enemy sniper was lying right up against the beam. I could see the barrel of his rifle and the top of his helmet. The German was holding his weapon at the ready. I cautioned Naydenov not to open the embrasure of the gun port under any circumstance, while I then crawled away into the trench, in order to shoot the fascist from a reserve position.
From my new position I could see the upper part of the helmet, but the beam was concealing the German’s body. I waited for him to raise his head, holding the cross hairs of the sight on his helmet. Time passed slowly, ponderously. My hands were growing numb, tears were inter- fering with my vision, and the blood was pounding in my temples like the blows of a hammer. I began to count, reached the number 1,000, lost
count, and started again. But my adversary continued to lay there without moving. In our trench someone began to cough loudly and the fascist slightly raised his head, exposing his entire helmet. I fired and quickly moved to rejoin Naydenov.
‘Got him!’ Sergey exclaimed. ‘He’s lying there motionlessly.’
Everything that had happened in front of Naydenov’s eyes dazzled him. ‘Ye-es. A snii-per,’ he thoughtfully drawled. ‘I learned to shoot in the people’s militia. If only they had taught me to shoot like that . . .’
Naydenov tossed a few twigs into the little trench stove. The fire immediately flared to life. We had a smoke. Sergey started to think aloud: ‘In open combat at some other time, you can lie under a torrent of bullets and shell fragments and not get harmed. But here . . . one care- less motion and you’re done for. Can someone learn all this?’
‘It’s possible. He who wants to learn, learns.’
Naydenov was silent for a bit. Moving back from the periscope, he took a seat right on the ground. Having thought for a moment, he told me: ‘There was mail today, but again no letters for me . . .’
‘Who are you expecting one from?’
‘From my family, of course, and also . . . from a girl and some child- hood friends.’
‘You must have a girlfriend. Who is she?’
‘Here, read this letter. Only I ask you – don’t blab about it, or the guys will start to laugh.’ Naydenov pulled a pair of warm mittens from a pocket – and a blue envelope.
‘Can I read it all?’
‘Go ahead, but she sent it to me back before the war began. I some- times re-read it.’
I took the letter from him and read it out loud:
Greetings, my friend and our future Zakrechensky agronomist. Seryozha! Today I passed my final state exam. Now I can help you finish your final course. Seryozha, beloved! My dream has come true! I’m now a doctor! I’m saying goodbye to Moscow, and I’m travelling to our Zakrechensky. My dear, I will be waiting for you on the banks of the Volga, by those two cottonwood trees, where we once swore eternal friendship to each other. I will never forget our vow or your curly blond forelock. Seryozha, how happy we will be together, although a bit silly too. How much I long to have you with me now, right now; do you recall our times on the bank of the Volga?
I can’t get enough of you. How I also wish that you could see my happiness and be the first to congratulate me on my diploma.
Seryozha! My friend! There are blotches on the letter. Tears have made these blotches. I’m laughing and crying from happiness. How lucky we were, to be born and to grow up in our time.
Dear! Don’t dally after the exams in Leningrad. I’m not waiting for letters, but for you . . . Hugs and firm kisses. Yours eternally,
Svetlana
My eyes teared up as I read the last lines of this carefully-preserved letter from a beloved girlfriend. They reminded me of so much. I wanted to know how these two people, who sincerely loved each other, had met. I didn’t have time to ask for more information about their meetings, before enemy shells began to fall on our defences. Naydenov quickly ducked into the trench. I opened the gun port. I spotted little white figures crawling on the snow towards our lines. From our side, to my right and left light and heavy machine guns opened fire, submachine- guns chattered in short bursts, and single rifle shots rang out. I fired without ceasing.
My head was ringing from the frequency of my shooting and the nearby explosions. The Germans crossed the 100-metre registration mark and approached to within hand-grenade range of our trenches. One of them, propping himself up on his left hand, rose and tried to fling a grenade. I shot him in the chest. The grenade dropped from his hand and exploded beside him.
Suddenly everything around me abruptly fell silent. A ball of fire rose into the sky. I felt as if some enormous hand was rubbing my right eye with sandpaper. Dancing flames spread in front of me. Colours in it, playing fancifully, disappeared and then reappeared again. I saw these patterns in a fiery ring, beyond which yawned a bottomless abyss, into which I was swiftly falling. Throwing my arms apart to the sides, I am trying to catch the edge of the abyss, but I cannot; my hands slip . . . Then everything disappears.
Later, having returned from the hospital, I found out that the little Hercules, Andrey, had dug me out of my sniper’s lair and handed me over to medics. But I didn’t manage to thank the comrade, who saved my life: several days before my return to the front from the hospital, he was killed by an enemy bullet.
I woke up in a hospital. My right eye was bandaged. A gnawing pain was in my legs. A little home-made heater was burning with a low flame in the corner of a spacious room. Along the walls stood beds with high and low backrests, upon which lay piles of striped mattresses, grey greatcoats and khaki-coloured cotton jackets.
A woman in a quilted jacket was sitting at a table, covered with a multitude of flasks and piles of paper. Her head lowered over her work, she was slowly rolling up a narrow gauze bandage. It was the duty nurse, Aleksandra Sergeyevna Voronina.
I stirred. The nurse immediately raised her head, opened her large blue eyes, adjusted the scarf on her head, and strode over to me: ‘You’ve been sleeping for a long time, esteemed comrade. Now though I’ll ask you to look at me.’ The nurse raised a hand above her head. ‘Do you see it?’
‘I see it.’
‘That’s great. Now it’s time to have a bite to eat, no doubt you’re hungry?’
‘Thank you, I don’t want to eat.’
‘How can that be? For five days, you’ve taken nothing into your mouth but a little sugar water – and you don’t want to eat?’
Aleksandra Sergeyevna walked out of the room between the beds and disappeared behind a wide door. Next to me on my left, one of the striped mattresses stirred, a grey soldier’s greatcoat rose, and out from under it emerged a bandaged human head: ‘Brother, from which sector of the front have you arrived?’
‘From Ligovo.’
‘What’s going on there?’
‘The Germans came creeping towards us. I was wounded at the start of the battle, and I don’t know how it concluded.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m a Belorussian, but since childhood I’ve been living in Leningrad.’ ‘Well, that means you can be regarded as a Leningrader. I’m from Vologda, but I was hit at Tikhvin, when we were drubbing the Spanish Blue Division on the outskirts of Tikhvin.’
The stranger paused, pulled a mug out of his bedside nightstand, took a few gulps of water, and wiped off his closely-trimmed brown mous- tache: ‘Well, see here, I’ve been a poor host; you’ve been unconscious for some time. Bread, sugar and cigarettes are kept in the nightstand, they’ve been bringing soup and kasha, and a teacher comes to teach us to read.’
The nurse brought me breakfast. My neighbour’s head instantly disappeared under his greatcoat. The nurse left, and the head re- emerged: ‘I can see, brother, you’re poorly dressed; you’re freezing, and it is like ice in this ward. Why don’t you ask the nurse for another blanket? Our nurse is a good one. Oh, and eat, before it gets cold.’
The head withdrew under the greatcoat and didn’t reappear until lunch. The breakfast consisted of a mug of tea, two lumps of sugar, two spoonfuls of kasha, and two thin slices of black bread.
As soon as I picked up a slice of bread, the hungry eyes of my neigh- bour on my right were following my hand. He was completely emaciated and was constantly shivering from the cold, despite the fact that he was laying beneath two wool blankets. As soon as the sound of dishes came from the corridor, he would rise, look at the door with famished eyes, and lick his chapped lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, like a door latch.
With each day he became more weak and irritable. For several days, he never once said a word to anyone, and he never once smiled. The hunger had altered his face terribly. His withered long fingers were constantly moving, although he never tried to grab or pick up anything. His large, angular, and closely-shaved head turned from side to side with difficulty. He ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with lightning speed, but from his eyes it was clear that hunger was increasingly tormenting him. After several days he died; they covered him with a sheet and carried him with his bed out into the corridor. That same day, around evening, two hospital attendants rolled a trolley into the ward and stopped at the bed of the soldier from Vologda.
‘Well, Ponurin, it’s your turn now,’ the nurse said, pulling the great- coat off his head.
‘What are you saying, little nurse, I haven’t yet re-learned how to walk; please, give me a hand and we’ll take a stroll together.’
‘No, Aleksandr Zakharovich, that’s not permitted. Some other time I’ll be glad to take a walk with you, but today I ask you to lie down.’
The Red Army man gave a wave with his hand, gathered together the rear of his gown, and took a seat sideways on the trolley, like peasants do when transporting grain to a mill.
‘Now, Zakharych, don’t be embarrassed; lie down. Sitting is not permitted,’ said one of the attendants.
Awkwardly, like a drunken man, the wounded man fell onto his side on the trolley. An hour and a half later, they brought him back.
‘This time I couldn’t resist, and they cut it out.’ ‘But how, without your agreement?’ I asked in surprise.
‘You’re an odd one! No one even asked me. They did everything like this question had been settled long ago. They didn’t even say much while they did it. “Well, shall we get started?” the surgeon Natalya Petrovna asked, and that was all. A moment or two, and everything was ready. Two nurses took position on the sides of the table and grabbed my arms. A grey-haired man, I don’t know who, stood at the head. I say: “Natalya Petrovna, I don’t want to lose my eye, is there really no way to save it?” She answered, “No, dear comrade. This is necessary, do you understand? Necessary or not, you’ll lose the eye. Whatever’s mutilated must be removed, in order not to prevent you from living a normal, healthy life.”’
Ponurin tentatively touched the gauze patch with his fingers and pensively shook his head: ‘They cut it out. I’m not joking, forty-five minutes on the operating table! I recalled my entire life. I didn’t feel pain. I was suffering inside.’
Aleksandr Zakharovich, pressing his palms to his bandaged head, sat motionlessly for several minutes on the edge of his bed. I sensed that it was difficult for him to speak, and I didn’t want to distress him further. The severe January days of 1942 passed slowly . . . Someone asked a nurse what was happening in Leningrad.
‘There no way I can comfort you, dears. Each morning, when I come to the hospital, I meet passing trucks, loaded with corpses. Starvation is laying low everyone in succession. My eyes have grown tired of seeing them.’
The nurse stopped. She had caught the groan of a patient, and quickly